


It Is What It Is - Johnlock Oneshot

by Nandriel



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gay, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sad, The lying detective, the HUG
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 13:26:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9387173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nandriel/pseuds/Nandriel
Summary: Sherlock was there for him, for every hour, every minute, every second of John's life. He was there when he married someone else, to when John was weeping in his flat with his throat clenching, the chambers of his soul shattering beneath his love.This is what happened after the hug.





	

"That's the point." John said, fumbling with his bottom lip as he stared into nothing, however his eyes portrayed vulnerability. His hand shaded his face from Sherlock as he let out a submissive cry, crying for Mary, crying for not being better to her.

Sherlock set his mug down, and got up to John. He lied his hand on the nape of John's neck, feeling the hairs that had arisen, his body making contact with his, "It's okay." He said.

"It's not okay." John rasped, exhaling despair. 

"No, " He paused, "but it is what it is."

Sherlock tightened his grip on John's arm, and Sherlock closed his eyes, just listening to his lover cry; cry for his dead wife. The detective placed his chin on the blogger's neck. He remembers that moment, how John let himself crumble underneath Sherlock in the silence. They stood there, sentiment and trust marinating their brains.

John accepts the warm comfort, feeling the emotional stab in his stomach as he realised what situation he was in. His mysterious man from the morgue who sent a text on his phone, his flatmate, his detective, his best man at his wedding, his saviour, his lover,  holding his aching body tight. The so called dispassionate individual who only had one friend, ran his fingers along his arm subconsciously.

John didn’t accept that he loved him. Sherlock just didn’t love people, he thought often. Everyday he lingered on his locks, his motions, his lips, that sentence got the best of him. He was only a friend, only a man that pushed his feelings away for. It was all him, after so many years. He was who he needed. John distracted himself with dates, with women he did not fancy, with a wife who was dead and crying for.

Sherlock was there for him, for every hour, every minute, every second of John's life. He was there when he married someone else, to when John was weeping in his flat with his throat clenching, the chambers of his soul shattering beneath his love.

That was Sherlock was to him ultimately, a love. But John Hamish Watson didn’t believe, didn’t accept that that he loved Sherlock. He admired his laugh and how wrinkles would form. He admired his intelligence and how he used it. He loved his beautiful ways.

‘Do better.’ Surfaced his mind, its whispers travelling. 

“Sherlock Holmes.” He said, putting his hand on beloved. The doctor shut his eyes at the ground, leaning his head on him. He gazed up, his fingers brushing against his jaw. Sherlock indulged in the touch of him, his mind savouring it. John smiled at the view of his eyes. Yes, one iris as surrounded by crimson, but he didn’t mind, it didn’t bother him. The taller man looked towards him, not knowing what to expect. Admiration stuck to from his grin.

Sherlock’s breath hitched, his chest suddenly feeling tight, “I —”

“I'm in love you.” John uttered, “I always have been skeptical of it for all these years. I thought that you don’t love -  you say that sentiment is a disadvantage - but it’s gotten to the point where I just don’t care anymore. I love you with every inch of me, from when I first saw you, to my wedding. I was stupid to not understand my feelings for you, for dismissing it. It’s always been you, not anyone else. I want you in my life, because I love you so much.

“If you don't want that —”

Sherlock tilted his head up, his expression of shock the last thing he saw before he met his wet lips. They met in a fulfilling hunger, the sounds they make breaking the atmosphere and moulding it into a passionate one. A moan escaped the two. This is what John were missing all along - he was missing his lips on Sherlock’s, the short breaks of air before he dove in for another kiss again, the sensations of his lips on him. John chuckled, wrapping his arms around his neck as he tugged him, the space between them becoming non-existent. Sherlock sighed at every peck, every time he would beg for entrance.

John didn’t know what would occur after, how the public would think, how Mrs Hudson, Greg, Molly and Mycroft would react, but all that John knew was that Sherlock was his happiness, his euphoria, his light, his heaven.

_ It is what it is, after all. _


End file.
